


Broken Toy Soldier

by GuenVanHelsing



Series: Two-Wheel Bicycle [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky is a confused and confusing character, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:02:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Names are important. Names have power. No one is calling the Winter Soldier’s name anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Toy Soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravenously](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/gifts).



> We were done. I swear, we were done. But nooooooo, apparently not… This chapter is for ravenously. 
> 
> Mentions of suicide, depression. All characters belong to Marvel, et cetera, et cetera... I just play with them.  
> This work has not been beta'ed.

It used to be him, standing in a puddle of blood and looking down at mismatched hands, barely beginning to wonder what had made them before more orders would come and he would sleep in an icy casket that smelt of death. It used to be him, dragging screaming women into dark rooms and tying them tight to whatever bed was available, sitting on chairs beside them and listening dispassionately as they screamed, uncertain of what the night would hold for them.

                Sometimes they were cut free, shaking and terrified and crying, and were shipped off in black vans to an unknown destination.

                Sometimes they died, still screaming, their blood spurting from under the knife all over his hands and arms and soaking into the mattress until their twitching body stilled.

                Sometimes the Winter Soldier was the one screaming, crouched on the floor and screaming as loud as his lungs could handle, hands pressed to his head and wishing that he could die, because then and only then would the pain stop stop stop-

                Now the Winter Soldier sits in the dark, alone, useless. He has no mission, no objective. When Bucky needs him, he answers, but those times are becoming fewer and fewer, as Bucky absorbs the Winter Soldier’s knowledge like a sponge.

                Sometimes he gets a glimpse of a beach, a laughing, smiling face close to his that has made Bucky uncomfortable, and Steve is laughing next to him, and when he turns his head he can see the easy smile on the Captain’s face. It all vanishes the moment Bucky takes control.

                Sometimes it’s dark when the Winter Soldier wakes, when Bucky is screaming and Captain America is in danger, and the Soldier takes charge and does what needs to be done, Bucky’s screams are louder in his head than they are out of it.

                Those are the times the Soldier hates the most. The screaming. He can handle the violence that needs doing, can take the lives of those who try and take his life or Captain America’s, but the Soldier hates the screaming.

                He hates it most of all, because it is dark in this place, dark and alone, and when he sleeps there is no escape from his own screaming as hands take every part of him that is _him_ and strip it down into nothing.

 

\--

 

The Winter Soldier opens his eyes, and he knows something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, because Captain America is crouched over him, shield up and voice loud as he commands someone into position, and there is no reassuring touch from Bucky to push him back down into the dark, into the safety of nothing.

                Something is wrong.

                “Bucky, please,” says the Captain, and his eyes go wide, so very blue, when he sees that the Soldier is awake, and his face melts into utter relief. The Soldier isn’t expecting that, isn’t expecting that level of _love_ – because anyone with eyes could see it for what it was – and he flinches. Captain America doesn’t seem to notice, just holds out a hand. “Can you stand?”

                The Winter Soldier closes his eyes, focusing on his body and the injuries sustained by it during his absence. “Two cracked ribs, bullet to left shoulder. I am not compromised.”

                “Fuck,” says the Captain, and the Soldier stares at him in mild shock. “Stand down, Soldier. We’re almost out of this mess. Black Widow is still inside, but she should be here any moment.”

                “Already here, boys,” purrs Natalia, draping herself over his shoulder, and it’s too soon, too fast, too _familiar_ , and the Soldier is on his feet and twelve steps away before he remembers about the cracked ribs, and sits down again with a thump.

                “Fuck,” says the Captain again, and Natalia looks like she’s seconding that statement. The Soldier had never seen her so expressive, so quick to touch. She was touching now, touching Steve’s arm – yes, his name was Steve, wasn’t it, Bucky always calls him Steve – and the Soldier forces himself to get up, ignore the pain in his ribs and his shoulder, and walk back over to his two comrades.

                Now that’s he’s upright and his world is no longer singularly comprised of Captain America’s concerned face, the Soldier can take in their surroundings. Empty buildings, dead grass, his breath fogging in the air and now he’s wondering if the ache in his shoulder is a bullet or just the cold. Men in army jackets and sporting heavy rifles creep around the nearest building, and the Soldier has no gun in his hands.

                “What is the mission objective?” The Soldier says the words, hears his voice say them, but he isn’t listening, not really. That is what he says whenever he is woken, after the poking and prodding and physical fitness tests are complete. That is the only question he is allowed to ask, but now he has another. _Where are you, Bucky_?

                Unsurprisingly, there is no answer.

                “Hostage situation,” the Captain is saying, and the Soldier stops poking in the empty corridors of his already aching head and focuses on his voice. “A Senator’s daughter. They picked her up right from her daycare, masquerading as Secret Service agents. They’re holding her in the basement, and they’ve been sending vials of blood every five hours that the money isn’t delivered.”

                “What is the mission objective?” He doesn’t want a backstory, he doesn’t _care_ whose daughter is in whose basement. He wants to know _what he needs to do_. So he can sleep, go back to the cold den that awaits every mission.

                The Soldier’s brow is furrowing, because no, he doesn’t want to go back to the cryo-chamber. He doesn’t like the cold, he doesn’t like the warm hands that are only gentle until he’s on his feet again. He doesn’t want to _sleep_.

                “Are you all right?”

                The Captain’s question catches him off-guard, and he wonders for what seems like the thousandth time where the hell Bucky is. “What is the mission objective?”

                There’s something in the Captain’s face, something twisting and sad, and the Soldier knows exactly how he could make it break. But he doesn’t have to, doesn’t need to, that isn’t the mission. “Take out the hostiles, rescue the girl. Natasha’s canvassed for us, but it’ll take more than one soldier to do this. There’s too _many_ of them. Why the hell are there so many men guarding one girl?”

                The Winter Soldier wonders when Captain America started swearing so much. “How many?”

                “Seventeen,” says Natalia Natasha Natalia _what is her name_ and she’s looking at him funny, and the Soldier looks away, because he’d been staring. “They’ve got HYDRA weapons, or we would have made mincemeat of them by now.”

                HYDRA weapons. The guns that spat blue fire and atomized whatever they touched. Captain America’s shield could deflect the bolts, as could the Soldier’s arm – because even HYDRA knew better than to toss their best weapon in with ones he couldn’t block – but a shield and one arm wouldn’t be enough to complete the mission. They’d need full body armor or a tank or a-

                “Hey,” says Natalia, too close, too _close_ , and she backs up a step, hands up and open. The Winter Soldier looks down, and there’s a knife in his hand, but he doesn’t remember grabbing it, and _that’s_ when he panics.

                The Soldier hadn’t grabbed the knife. And it hadn’t been Bucky. Was he finally breaking down? Had he been injured other than the obvious? He searched his memories, but there is nothing, nothing, _nothing_ -

                He remembers grabbing the knife.

                It’s hazy, like a half-remembered dream – or he thinks it is, since he can’t tell, as all his dreams are vivid and stark in his mind – but he remembers seeing Natalia step up, remembers grabbing the knife from the sheath at his back, remembers fingers fumbling because the first knife isn’t there and the little twinge of relief when the second one is, remembers seeing nothing but a threat in the calm, red-haired hurricane that is now viewing him just as calmly, but she is still, held in such easy preparedness that there isn’t a tense line in her body.

                “Okay,” says the Soldier, and lowers the knife. His breathing is fast, too fast, but he breathes deep once, twice, and he’s okay. “Okay,” he says again, and wishes for Bucky.

                Captain America, who has kept calm through all of this nonsense inside the Soldier’s head and out of it, nods sharply and gestures at the building, where the soldiers are still milling around. Looking for them, the Soldier realizes; the three supersoldiers standing in the shadow of a decrepit warehouse that was too big and too empty to be an easy defense, would have been a liability to anyone guarding the house across from them where the men stood, for how easy would it be for a sniper to sit in the highest window and pick off the men one by one?

                The Captain is laying out a plan, and the Soldier is listening, and he will follow him into battle.

                “ _I’m not following Captain America. The little guy, that Steve Rogers, the one who didn’t know when to back down from a fight. I’m following him_.”

                It isn’t until they’re standing in a mess of blood and scorched uniforms and dead soldiers, lifting a pale-faced little girl from the concrete and ash that the Winter Soldier realizes that that memory wasn’t his, had never been his, it had been Bucky’s, and the Soldier hadn’t been there to see it in the first place. Yet here he was, hearing his own voice – Bucky’s voice, his voice – saying those words, felt the warmth in his chest from the feeling behind those words, warmer still from the small body curled in his arms in a patchy nightdress, and the Soldier wishes he still wore his mask, if only to hide the flush in his cheeks, because he knows why Captain America had looked at him so forlornly, so brokenly, when it had been the Soldier who was there and not Bucky.

                Bucky Barnes loved Steve Rogers, and the Winter Soldier was pretty damn certain that Steve Rogers loved Bucky Barnes back.

                “Fuck,” said the Soldier, echoing the Captain’s earlier sentiment, and has the grace to feel ashamed when the little girl in his arms glares at him.

                “A dollar in the swear jar,” she says, her voice high and sweet, and the Soldier is glad that she’s okay, she’ll be fine, her time away from home wouldn’t hinder her in any way.

                “A dollar in the swear jar,” the Soldier promises, and adds, “sorry,” when she glowers at him. Natalia – _Natasha_ – is laughing at him, in her own way, and the Captain’s mouth looks pinched, and the Soldier wants to press his flesh fingers to those lips and smooth the pout away.

                That’s when the Winter Soldier knows he’s _really_ screwed.

 

\--

 

The Senator cries when his daughter runs into his arms, mindless of the dirt and chalk that dusts his clothes as he hugs his messy daughter to his chest. Her hair is grey with dust, dust they hadn’t had time to wash from her in their harrowing flight back to Washington DC, in a tiny plane that dipped and swayed and made the little girl shout in delight whenever it made a particularly buoyant jump. She had sat in the Soldier’s lap the entire trip, bouncing on his thigh and chattering about all sorts of things that went right over his head – was there a difference between creamy peanut butter or smooth peanut butter if it was made from the same nuts, why did people hair stay soft but doll hair didn’t, why did planes fly, why did people wear hats if they always blew off anyway – and before they let her run to her father, Captain America gives her a dollar, because the Winter Soldier had promised but apparently Bucky didn’t carry money on missions, but the little girl doesn’t mind so long as someone paid the swear jar and apologized.

                They’re back in Captain America’s apartment, sitting at the little table in the kitchen. Or rather, the Winter Soldier is sitting at the table, and the Captain is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta. Natalia is an hour gone, having insisted that she had better things to do than look after kicked puppies. The Soldier had laughed, but that just made his ribs hurt, and the Captain had gotten that sad, pinched look again.

                The Winter Soldier hated Bucky, just for a moment, because he remembered those flashes at the beach and at the park and in the apartment and in all of them Steve is smiling at _Bucky_ , but never once has Steve smiled at the Soldier. The Soldier is not for smiling at, he is not something to pet and soften with pretty smiles.

                Natalia – Nata _sha_ , why couldn’t he _remember_ – had smiled at him, during the raid, on the plane, before she left the apartment. She had been easy with Bucky, when she had thought the Soldier was still Bucky, but she was a different sort of easy with the Soldier. She hadn’t tried to touch him again, had stayed a courteous thirty centimeters away from him, but she smiled at him, and wasn’t afraid of him.

                Captain America was afraid of the Winter Soldier. The Soldier figured this, because the Captain was wary of him, didn’t let him out of his range of sight for longer than a few minutes. Or maybe Captain America hated the Winter Soldier, because every time the Captain looked at him, there was this awful hope in his eyes, and that hope was frozen in ice every time it was the Soldier who still looked back.

                It had only been an hour, and already the Soldier knows the Captain hates him, can’t bear to look at him, because the Soldier is just a reminder that Bucky is gone.

                Gone, gone, gone. The Winter Soldier had searched his head the entire plane ride home, but there had been no sign of Bucky, no answers to his calls. The Captain set a plate of pasta in front of him, laden with sauce and cheese and steaming, and the Soldier reaches for the fork.

 

\--

 

There have been no missions, no forays in the dark for a week. The Soldier sleeps fitfully, waking with a metal fist in his mouth to keep from screaming and the blankets tangled disconcertingly around his legs. Most nights he sits at the base of Steve’s bed, back pressed to the wooden bedframe and knives in every pocket, sleepless and shivery and confused, slipping into his own bed before dawn, before Steve can wake up and find him.

                One night he falls asleep there, and he wakes up screaming from the hands and the scalpels and the pain and Steve is there, eyes wide and his shield on his arm, looking for an assailant but finding only a broken Soldier at the foot of his bed, hand over his mouth because he can’t stop screaming and shaking because he isn’t allowed to scream, isn’t allowed to be noisy, has to be quiet and pliant and-

                The Soldier can’t focus, can’t think, and when he looks up again there’s sunlight shining through the window and Steve is sitting on the floor across from him, back against the wall, shield gone. The Captain looks tired, but he’s awake, sitting there, watching, and the Soldier lowers his hands because he’s empty and there are no screams left from his ragged throat.

                “Do you sleep in here?” asks Steve, his voice soft, his eyes soft, every part of him held loose and as unthreatening as possible.

                “No,” says the Soldier, and it’s true. Just this once, he’d been too tired, hadn’t realized he was dozing until it was too late, but he had never slept on Steve’s floor before. Hadn’t let himself.

                Steve sighs, more a tired huff than anything. “You can,” he says. “Sleep here, I mean. If it makes you more comfortable. This is your house, too.”

                “Bucky’s house,” says the Soldier. “Steve’s house.”

                “You’re Bucky, too,” says Steve, and the Soldier shakes his head, because it’s wrong, it’s wrong, because the Soldier isn’t Bucky-

                – _“Hey, Bucky, want to go swimming? It’s really hot out.” Steve looks up at him, laughing, skinny body in too-big shorts that slide on his hips_ –

                “Steve,” says the Soldier, and his hand is pressed to his mouth again. “Not Steve, not Steve, not Steve-“

                Steve is sitting next to him, shoulder warm on his metal arm – when did it start feeling _warm_? When did it start feeling anything? – and he’s warm and solid and the Soldier leans into him because the bedframe is hard and unyielding and Steve is not.

                “I’m Steve,” says Steve, his voice rumbling in his chest and the Soldier can feel the vibrations. “I’m Steve, and you’re Bucky. You’re a different Bucky, but you’re still Bucky.”

                “I’m _not_ ,” hisses the Soldier, but he’s curled around Steve’s arm and his cheek is pressed against the Captain’s shoulder, and he doesn’t know if he sounds convincing. “I’m not Bucky,” he murmurs, and even to his ears he sounds broken. The Captain hums, something familiar and catchy but the Soldier doesn’t know it, doesn’t remember any of it.

                The asset is sitting on the floor of his mission’s bedroom, pressed into his side and he can hear the steady beat of a calm heart, and the Winter Soldier leaps across the room, gasping and shaking, because his metal hand is clenched and he can taste blood in his mouth and all he can see is Captain America and a little man is screaming in his ear that he has to follow orders and someone is screaming screaming screaming-

                The Winter Soldier is sitting on the floor of Steve’s bedroom, pressed into the wall and shaking, finally silent by the time Natasha Romanov and Tony Stark arrive, in full battle armor and expecting the asset, not a Soldier with tears streaming down his face and Steve Rogers kneeling on the floor four feet away from him, voice calm and soothing and his face a mess of emotions.

                “Oh, geez, I meant as friends, not as the army,” says Steve when he sees Iron Man and Black Widow, and the Winter Soldier is up and throwing himself between them and Steve, keeping his body firmly between the immediately raised guns and the Captain.

                “Mission: save Steve,” whispers the Soldier. “Mission: save Steve. Mission: save Steve.”

                Arms wrap around his waist, and he stiffens, but it’s just Steve, Steve who is safe, is safe. Steve is safe. “It’s okay, Bucky, calm down.”

                “I’m not _Bucky_!” But the Soldier sits down, calms down, because Steve is his commanding officer when Bucky is not around and he won’t disobey.

                “Hey, Frostsicle,” says Iron Man, and tugs his helmet off, and it’s just Tony in a metal suit. The Soldier remembers that, remembers the suit lying in pieces in a workshop, but Natalia is crouching down in front of him, eyes searching his face for- he didn’t know what. “How’s the arm holding up?” says Tony, since Natalia has apparently found what she was looking for and is canvassing the apartment, checking the fire escape and windows.

                The servos click and whir as the Soldier hesitantly rests his metal hand on Steve’s arm, the one wrapped around his chest, keeping him down. “What’s a frostsicle?”

                Steve groans, and Tony is laughing, and Natalia is on the phone with someone, out of earshot, and the Soldier can’t bring himself to care that he’s outnumbered and outgunned and he just wants to sleep so he lets Steve hold him and he watches as Tony and Natalia – Natasha Natalia he can’t remember can’t remember – wander around the apartment and the Soldier closes his eyes and if wishes were fishes he’d swim in a sea of them because he’s wishing again and there’s never any answer.

 

\--

 

_pain screaming needles pain hands holding him down so much pain make it stop make it stop no no please no stop_

 

\--

 

“It’s all right, Bucky, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”

                There are strong arms around him, holding him tight and safe and they move when he pushes at them, not holding tight like the hated chair, and the Soldier opens his eyes and he’s sprawled on the floor of Steve’s bedroom, draped over the man in question. Tony and Natalia are gone, but there’s someone else moving around in the kitchen, heavy footsteps, and the Soldier goes still.

                “It’s just Bruce,” says Steve, sitting there, hands making small motions like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, and the Soldier falls back against the other man’s chest, just laying there, breathing, pretending everything is okay and that this is normal. Normal to wake up in Steve’s arms, Steve’s concerned face so close to his, normal that someone was puttering around in their kitchen and making- coffee?

                “Hey,” says Bruce, standing in the bedroom doorway and holding two steaming cups of what the Soldier is certain isn’t the coffee they had in the cupboard. “I’d say good morning, but, ah, it’s more like afternoon now.” He hands the cup of coffee to Steve, who accepts it and takes a sip, and it is definitely _not_ the coffee from the cupboard because their coffee is black and heavy and this coffee smells like hazelnuts. “Do you want coffee?”

                “No,” says the Soldier, and adds, “thank you,” as an afterthought, because he remembers talking to Bruce, on a rooftop, and he remembers that he likes the man with the salt-and-pepper hair and the Other Guy lurking behind his benign grey eyes. Steve is silent behind him, sipping his coffee, and Bruce settles cross-legged on the floor across from them, back to the wall like Steve had been – had it only been that morning?

                They sit in silence, comfortable silence, before the Soldier gets restless and struggles to get up, pulling away from the arm that had wrapped around his waist with a familiar-unfamiliar comfort and scuttling sideways on the carpet, settling back down six inches from Steve, back to the bedframe. “Did Natalia call you?”

                “Natasha called me,” says Bruce, turning his coffee cup in his hands. “She said you had a bit of a problem.”

                “I’m not Bucky,” says the Soldier, and Bruce nods.

                “I know. I know you’ve been, ah, not-Bucky for over a week, since the hostage situation, and, well, that’s about all I know. Do you want to fill me in?”

                The Soldier did not want to fill Bruce in, because the Soldier didn’t really _know_ what there was to fill _in_. “I can’t find him anywhere,” he says instead. “I can’t find Bucky.” The Soldier hesitates, then adds, “Sometimes I see things.”

                Steve is watching him, his face a mask of calm, but it’s Bruce who speaks. “What kind of things?”

                “Wrong things,” says the Soldier, because he can’t put it into words exactly. “They don’t- They’re not real.”

                “Dreams,” says Bruce, but the Soldier shakes his head, because that’s wrong, too.

                “Not dreams, they’re not- they’re not mine,” he says. “When I dream, it’s just memories, just things I’ve seen myself. These things, they’re something else. They’re- happy.”

                “And you’re afraid of this happy thing?” asks Bruce.

                The Soldier bristles. “I’m not afraid.” But he is afraid. He’s afraid that he’s breaking and that he won’t be able to keep his promise to Bucky because Bucky was missing and if the Soldier broke then there would be no one left to take care of Steve. “There’s a boy in there.”

                “In the things you see?” Bruce sits forward, resting his arms on his knees, but he’s far away, not a threat, off-balance, and the Soldier doesn’t move. “There’s a boy, okay. Do you know him?”

                “No,” says the Soldier. “He looks like Steve, but he’s too small, too little. Too… breakable.” He searches for the right words, but Steve beats him too it.

                “Too weak?” he says, and the Soldier stares at him, nodding once. “I used to be a little squirt.”

                – _a holographic screen showing a small man that shifts into a bigger one, muscled and strong in an instant_ –

                “A museum…?” murmurs the Soldier, and he can see Bruce nodding out of the corner of his eye, suddenly blocked from view when the Soldier’s hand presses to his temple, wincing. His head _aches_ , and he doesn’t know _why_.

                But he remembers the museum.

                “Steven Grant Rogers, born 1924,” says the Soldier. “Ninety pounds soaking wet. Asthma. Frequent colds. Weak immune system. Favorite food is apple pie, from a bakery two streets over.”

                “That wasn’t in the exhibit,” says Steve quietly. “The bakery. Only Bucky would know that.”

                “You wanted to go swimming,” says the Soldier, and he sounds like he’s a million miles away. “It was hot out. Too hot. I didn’t want you to go. You sunburn too easily.”

                – _“C’mon, Bucky, it’s a hundred degrees out!”_

                _“Exactly. You’ll overheat and die and then where’ll I be?”_

_“It’ll be fine, come_ on _. You promised we could do something fun today, since you’re off work. And it’s hot out! We can just go for an hour, jump in a few times, you know?”_

_“An hour? Steve, you’ll be toast in five minutes.”_

_“Yeah, but it’ll be worth it. Better than sitting out here and drowning in sweat, right? It’ll be fun, Buck.”_

_“Aww, all right. But the minute you turn into a lobster we’re-_ ” –

                “-comin’ right back, you hear?” The words are on his lips, spilling into the silent room, and the Soldier doesn’t recognize them.

                “Ah,” says Bruce, sitting back. “I see. I see.”

                “See what?” snaps the Soldier, the sensation of annoyance still lingering from the little sunlit scene of a small boy and his insistence that he would be fine when the Soldier knew he would not be, and the Soldier didn’t know _why_.

                “I think,” says Bruce, spinning his empty cup between his hands, “that you’re experiencing Bucky’s memories.”

                “Impossible,” says the Soldier. Bucky had always been separate from him, someone else inside a cluttered mind. They could switch control of this body seamlessly, but it was separate, always separate. They could talk to one another, share instances of time, but Bucky could not recall the times the Winter Soldier had been awake, and the Winter Soldier could not recall the times when Bucky was awake. That was how it had always been.

                “Maybe not,” says Bruce. “It might be that whatever barriers between you and Bucky are breaking down, and you’re starting to share memories, experiences.”

                That could not happen. That could _never_ happen. “No,” says the Soldier, and he’s on his feet, anxious, pacing alongside the bed because that is a path that doesn’t take him close to the two men still seated on the bedroom floor. “No, no, no, no, no. That can’t happen. I won’t _allow_ it.”

                “Why don’t you want that to happen?” asks Bruce.

                “Before the war, we were happy,” says Steve. “Poor, but happy. You don’t want to remember that?”

                “I don’t care about that,” hisses the Soldier. “If I’m getting Bucky’s memories, then he’s getting _mine_. And I can’t let that happen.”

                “What don’t you want Bucky to know?” asks Bruce, but the Soldier shakes his head, and the rest of his body is mimicking that action, shaking, shaking, and he falls on the bed because it is soft and it’s the floor is so far away.

                “Can’t let him feel that,” mutters the Soldier, and his metal fingers curl on the bedspread. “Can’t let him, no, no, no-!” He cuts himself off, biting his tongue until it hurts and there’s blood pressing at his lips and the Soldier doesn’t care that he is weak, because he _is_ , he is _weak_ , if he can’t even protect Bucky from himself.

                The biggest enemy Bucky had ever had hadn’t been the Nazis, or HYDRA, or the cold winters that threatened to drown him in ice and freeze the breath in his lungs.

                The biggest enemy Bucky had ever had is the Winter Soldier.

                The Winter Soldier is a broken thing, broken in by pain and kind words masking more pain, and the things that woke him screaming in the night would break Bucky, and that would break Steve, and that would cause the Soldier to fail his mission. All the Soldier had was his mission, his one mission, and he was failing even now, because saving Steve meant saving Bucky, and he didn’t even know where Bucky _was_.

                The bed dipped, and Steve was sitting next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him but not touching. “Do you need anything?” His voice is so quiet, so gentle, and the Soldier hates _himself_ because he’s breaking Steve without even trying. He shakes his head, and he watches as Bruce stands, pausing at the doorway.

                “I’ll just go, then?” he says, and Steve nods, but the Soldier shakes his head again, and Bruce looks at them, confused. “You want me to stay?”

                “No,” says the Soldier, and the blood in his mouth drips to the blanket, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want Bruce here, doesn’t want anyone else to have to hear him scream, doesn’t want anyone to realize just how much pain Bucky was in for if he ever saw what the Winter Soldier had seen.

                But the Soldier remembers the rooftop.

                “Can we- talk? Later. Like we did, before.” The Soldier is quiet, but he knows Bruce heard him, sees him nod, step into the hall, and hears his footsteps, and then the door. The Soldier stays where he is, lying on Steve’s bed, Steve sitting next to him, and his metal fingers pick absently at the little balls of fluff that had been worn up from the blanket, and his head swims with too many words to speak.

                The hand on his head is gentle, stroking his hair from his face, and the Soldier stays where he is, looking at the blanket and not at Steve. He knows he’s sulking, knows it’s a childish thing to do, but sometimes the Soldier feels like a child, because he just doesn’t know what to do. He’s used to orders, to having a mission, a _purpose_. Now he’s just a placeholder, waiting for someone else to take charge.

                “I don’t know what to do,” says Steve, and it takes the Soldier a moment to realize that it _had_ been Steve, and not the Soldier speaking. So he listens. “It’s just… so confusing. It must be worse for you, being the confusing one, but I don’t know what to do with you.”

                Not the most comforting words, the Soldier finds, poking at the bedspread and wishing, wishing.

                And there is darkness.

 

\--

 

_“You can’t fix what’s broken.”_

_“We can damn well try! We’ve spent millions keeping this thing going over the years-“_

_“Yeah, and over the years, someone certainly wasn’t spending those millions on keeping his head on straight. We’ve had to wipe him three times in the last decade, and let’s not forget that business with Romanov-“_

_“Shut up. We’re not going to just throw him away! All that work-“_

_“Utterly wasted. He won’t respond to commands after a day out of stasis, fine. We’ll give him a new mission, a last hurrah, and when he’s killed or he kills his target, well, he’ll break himself, won’t he? And if he does get killed, then the good Captain will just off himself like he did before. That lovesick idiot threw his_ life _away because his boyfriend fell off a train. If he kills said boyfriend, who’s to say that won’t push him over the edge completely? Two birds with one stone, problem solved.”_

_“But if he fails-“_

_“He won’t._

_“He can’t._

_“He is incapable of failure.”_

 

\--

 

The Soldier sits on Steve’s bed, wearing Steve’s clothes and holding Steve’s pillow on his lap, because it is warm and he is not. Bucky’s phone is in his hand, and he scrolls through the contacts list, pitifully few. Steve, Natasha, Tony, Bruce, and Sam are all listed, and the Soldier navigates to the correct number as he listens to Steve in the kitchen, making breakfast, and the phone rings in his ear.

                “Hello?” says a harried-sounding voice, interrupting the dial. “Bucky?”

                “No,” says the Soldier.

                “Ah,” says Bruce. “How are you feeling?”

                Steve goes by the doorway, glancing in, but disappears into the bathroom, and the Soldier’s fingers fist on the pillow. “Can we talk?” he says into the phone.

                “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

                “Steve,” says the Soldier, and Steve is at the doorway in an instant, towel in hand and concern on his face. He sees the phone, tilts his head and question, and the Soldier stares at him blankly until he backs away into the bathroom again.

                “You want to talk about Steve,” said Bruce, static crackling over his voice. “Is he there?”

                “Yes,” says the Soldier.

                “Would you prefer to talk about this in person? I can be over in a few minutes.”

                The doorbell rings, and the Soldier clutches the phone, watching Steve leave the bathroom with shaving cream over half his chin and head for the door. “Someone’s here,” he says.

                “Well, it isn’t me,” says Bruce in his ear, and Steve comes back into view, followed by Tony, sans the Iron Man suit.

                “Tony’s here,” says the Soldier.

                “Okay,” says Bruce. “I’ll be over shortly, okay?”

                “Okay,” says the Soldier, and closes the phone. Tony is grinning, and Steve looks put-upon, and the Soldier clutches the pillow and the phone and shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”

                “I missed your pretty face,” says Tony, and he’s laughing. “Cap, honestly, go finish shaving. I can’t keep a straight face with all that cream.”

                Steve looks to the Soldier, a question on his lips, and the Soldier just shrugs. Steve goes, presumably to finish shaving, and Tony leans against the doorframe. “You okay, Frostsicle?” he asks.

                “I’m not a frostsicle,” says the Soldier, but maybe he is, because he’s cold, cold and frozen solid like the ice cubes in the freezer that Steve put in lemonade. Frozen like a Russian winter, cold enough to break any invading army.

                But not Steve. He can’t break Steve. Can’t stop the summer winds and the warm sunlight hitting dusty floorboards and the bright smile that tries to melt the winter and he can’t break Steve.

                The Soldier leaves.

 

\--

 

After the fact, the Winter Soldier comes to the conclusion that he had not thought this through at all. He’s standing in a store, surrounding by obnoxiously loud people jostling and bumping each other for a prime view of whatever was on hand for sale, and the Soldier can feel the knife digging into his ankle as he shuffles out of their way, counting the ways he could kill them and where he could hide their bodies, and then remembering that doing so would be stupid, because think of the cameras, and the armed guards wandering the halls – so few, he could probably take them out, scratch probably, he _could_ – and what would Steve say-

                No.

                Steve-

                “No,” says the Soldier, aloud, and he flinches from the sound of his own voice. The woman next to him, words flying from her mouth a mile a minute into the cell phone crushed to her ear, raised her perfectly trimmed eyebrows and stepped away, and the Soldier stared, because he hadn’t seen _that_ display before.

                The Soldier stepped up to it, ignoring the small child crouching by the lowest shelf, and stares at the comics and mugs and toys and shirts and _everything_ that is reminiscent of Captain America plastered over the display. Artwork and photos and posters and Steve _everywhere_ -

                “Finding everything all right?”

                The Soldier _jumps_ , digs his fingers into the pockets of his hoodie and pretends he wasn’t just thinking of grabbing the harried-looking store assistant by the throat and throwing him through a wall. It was so _loud_ here, in this packed store, he hadn’t even heard him approach.

                “Hey, take it easy, I was just asking,” says the man, throwing up his hands in a “don’t kill me” manner, unaware that it was a very, very good thing the Soldier was being good today, playing the good toy Soldier even if Steve was an idiot and the Soldier was an idiot and all around everyone had lost their minds. “You looking for anything in particular? Just browsing?”

                The Soldier glances back at the shrine to Captain America and fingers the thirty-three dollars and fifty-two cents in his pocket. Everything was priced high, and he wonders if he could get a discount if he threatened the store assistant.

                Probably-

                -not. Good Soldier. Be the good Soldier. Good Soldier, good boy, good _dog_ , sit, stay, roll over-

                “Big fan of the Cap?” offers the assistant, and the Soldier nods, because that’s a safe answer, and the assistant grins. “We’ve got some other Cap merch spread throughout the store if you’re still looking for something… unless you’re looking for something in particular?”

                - _soft pencils, the graphite smudges in easy strokes, and he grins, draws a lopsided stick figure and a smaller, less lopsided stick figure beside it, on the bright, white first page of the empty sketchbook. He wraps the pencils and the book in newspaper, scrawls Steve’s name on the top with a pen, and ties it all off with twine._

_“Perfect,” he says, and he grins, because the door opens and when he looks up there is sunlight and Stevie and everything is perfect_ -

                “Pencils,” says the Soldier. “And- a sketchbook.”

                “Right this way,” says the assistant, and the Soldier follows the cheerful, tired, prattling man who tells him stories about the various merchandise the store supplies and how many people come back for more – the Soldier already knows this, can _see_ this on the shirts of half the young men and women who wander the aisles – and the assistant stops in front of a shelf, gesturing theatrically and smiling. “Here you go! All the art supplies are here, and _here_ are the Captain America ones.” The man taps a plastic-cased _something_ and it glitters oddly in the light. “Let me know if you need help finding anything else,” says the assistant, before dashing off to help some other poor soul, and the Soldier crouches in front of the display.

                Pens and pencils and books and erasers and sharpeners and everything, laid out on the shelf like they were nothing, stacking on top of one another in so many multiples, and the Soldier is confused, because there are plain things and sparkly things and the majority of the sparkly things are _Steve_. A small sketchbook, barely the size of the Soldier’s hand, is perfect-bound with cream paper that is rough under his fingertips, with a red ribbon glued to the spine to – supposedly – mark your place with as you went through the book.

                The cover was sturdy, despite the poor gluing of the ribbon, and there was glitter and gemstones on the background and on _Steve_ and the Soldier imagines the real Steve Rogers with glitter and gemstones and he _shudders_ , and somehow he ends up at the checkout counter with that glittery, poorly glued book in one hand and a packet of Captain America pencils in the other, and he pays the twelve dollars and thirty-four cents and has the fake-smiling woman behind the counter wrap it in brown paper, even if she looks at him funny when he asks for paper.

                The Soldier tucks the brown package carefully in his pocket, and finds his phone, which is blinking with missed calls – two from Tony, one from Bruce, the other seven from Steve – and the Soldier has to go, has to report to his handler before he gets in trouble-

                “No,” says the Soldier, because he is outside of that awful building crammed with tiny stores and no one is close on the crumbling concrete walkway to hear him, anyway. “No handlers. No time frame. No- Steve.” And the Soldier sits down in the grass, and opens the phone.

                No one answers the first time he rings, and he hangs up at the voice mail. He tries again, a third time, and this time the voice answers, breathless, “Bucky?”

                “No,” says the Soldier, and he wonders how many times he can say it before it stops feeling real. “Where are you?”

                “At home. Where are you?”

                “Out.” The Soldier opens his mouth to say more, say where, but falls silent, watching a woman stalk by with her fancy dog on its fancier leash, and he grins, because it’s sparkly, too. “I got you something.”

                There’s a pause, confusion, and the Soldier can hear it in Steve’s voice when he answers, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

                “Too bad,” says the Soldier, and he frowns, because he hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant for it to sound teasing, familiar. He wasn’t familiar, and he didn’t tease.

                Steve’s voice interrupts his musing. “Are you coming home soon? I can- make dinner.”

                The Soldier checks the sun, guesses the time, and shakes his head, forgetting that Steve can’t see him. “You already made dinner. It’s reheating in the oven.”

                “…right. Are you going to come home?” And this time the Soldier hears it, the concern, the naked _fear_ in Steve’s voice, that Steve doesn’t think he’ll come back, and then the Soldier realizes that he can hear Steve pulling on boots, grabbing his keys, ready to leave, and the Soldier realizes that _Steve thinks this was goodbye_.

                “No, Steve- no,” says the Soldier, and he regrets it, hears the familiar metal of Steve’s shield, the creak of the leather armbands. “I’ll be- home. Soon. Put the shield down.”

                “Okay,” says Steve. “Okay. Do you want me to-“

                “No,” says the Soldier, and he hangs up, because he doesn’t want Steve running to his rescue, doesn’t want an avenging angel on a motorbike with that righteous look on his face and the setting sun reflecting off the metal and hitting the Soldier’s eyes, because he’s already blind when it comes to Steve, he’s _already_ blind, so the Soldier stands, and marches home.

 

\--

 

The apartment is empty when the Soldier lets himself in, empty save for Steve Rogers, who’s standing at attention in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across his chest and brow furrowed, and he looks _angry_ , and the Soldier fights the urge to square his shoulders and take whatever’s given him, because he’s never been given anything worthwhile and he certainly isn’t about to now.

                “You okay?” asks Steve, and he isn’t angry, he’s _worried_ – now that the Soldier is close, he can see that clearly. He can also see the shield, propped up against the wall inside the kitchen, the edge of it barely visible and leaning against Steve’s leg, in perfect reach. “I made dinner.”

                “Reheated dinner,” says the Soldier, because the meal is the same as last night, lasagna, laid out on the table with places set and glasses poured.

                “Bruce left half an hour ago,” says Steve, and he steps away from the shield, and the Soldier relaxes, hadn’t even realized he had tensed. “He said he’ll stop by tomorrow, if you want. You weren’t- answering your phone. Tony offered to track it, but-“ The Soldier resists the urge to take out the phone and destroy it, utterly, because he hated being tracked, hated having someone always aware of his presence, _hated_ it. But he doesn’t, because Steve is continuing, “-but, well, it just seemed invasive, and if you want to go out on your own, that’s okay, just please, _please_ , tell me before you go, or leave a note, or something? Please.”

                Pleading. Captain America is pleading with him.

                The Soldier had done a lot of pleading in his life. Pleas of “ _don’t hurt me_ ” and “ _make it stop, I’ll do what you want just make it stop make it stop make it stop_ ” filled what few early memories he had, and more lately they had turned into pleas of “ _Bucky please where are you_ ” and “ _make it stop make it stop please Bucky make it stop_ ” and the Soldier _can’t_.

                All the pleas in the world won’t make it right. No one’s listened to the Soldier before, and even Steve, with all his pleading and hopeful eyes, all that hope is for someone who was missing, and the Soldier doesn’t care, he just wants to-

                To- what? What does the Soldier want?

                The Soldier wanted to sleep.

                He wanted so sleep for a thousand years, and when that was done, he wanted to sleep some more.

                And he couldn’t do that, because _Steve_ and _Bucky_ and _nothing made sense_ and if he could just-

                Just-

                “Would you like juice instead of water?” asks Steve, perfectly normal and perfectly wonderful as if nothing is wrong and the Soldier is done.

                He’s done being the perfect Soldier, perfect asset, the perfect leeway between Bucky and the world. The Soldier is _done_.

                “Are you okay?” asks Steve, so much concern in every motion and expression, because the Soldier has stood there and stared at him in utter silence for too long, and the Soldier hates him, hates how that face can make him want to punch something, someone, to take out the world for making Steve sad.

                “No,” he says, and he stiffens, because Steve just pulls him into an easy embrace, as easy as breathing, just holds him, and the Soldier hates him, because all the affection and effort and _everything_ is not enough, isn’t enough to bring Bucky back for Steve, and the Soldier is _done_.

                “It’s okay,” whispers Steve, “it’s okay.”

                And it’s not, it’s not, and the Soldier can’t take it anymore. So he does what he has to, and whispers in Steve’s ear, so close to his mouth, “They knew.”

                The Soldier can _feel_ Steve still, feel the warm body wrapped around him grind to a halt like a stuttering engine, and the Soldier stills as well. “Who’s they?” whispered Steve, and the warm arms around the Soldier tighten. “Bruce and Tony? It’s okay, Buck, they’ve already left-“

                “I’m not-“ He’s no Bucky. Why can’t Steve _understand_ that? “HYRDA. My handlers. They knew. They- knew you, how you would react. It was all part of the plan.”

                The arms around him are tight, too tight, and the Soldier wants to break away, and run, run, run, but he can’t, he can’t, because Steve sounds broken when the next words fall from his lips. “What plan?”

                “Destroy you,” whispers the Soldier. It’s too quiet, in this little apartment. There’s no sound but the racing of Steve’s heart and the Soldier’s unsteady breathing. “ _Mission: kill Captain America_. But it wasn’t- _just_ kill. Destroy. Destroy you.”

                “How could they-“

                “It was so easy,” hisses the Soldier, and now he pulls away from Steve, because he can’t bear to touch something as good as Steve with the hands that had been sent to kill him, had _nearly_ killed him. He has to back away further, back to the wall and a good yard between him and the Captain before he can still, and Steve doesn’t follow him, just stands there, hands empty and his face- he couldn’t. The Soldier was many things, but he wasn’t something that could deal with _feelings_ and _emotions_ and all the agony on Steve’s face didn’t stir any good feelings in the Soldier. “So easy,” he whispered. “All I had to do was go after you. They’d seen the footage, they knew- they _knew_ you wouldn’t fight. And even if you did, if you killed me, then it was a win-win situation, right?” The Soldier laughed, and he wondered why he found it funny, funny that HYDRA had pulled so many strings and had broken so many of them. “I can remember them, my handlers. Before they gave me this mission, they were talking, discussing the best ways to dispose of me. A lost cause-“

                “Bucky-“ Steve took a step towards him, and the Soldier snarls.

                “ _I’m not Bucky_. I’m _not_. He isn’t here right now, stop-“

                “Bu- Soldier, what are you trying to-“

                “A lost cause!” yells the Soldier, and his metal fist is in the wall, sheetrock crumbled beneath his fingers in soft flakes he can _feel_. “I was too broken, they couldn’t fix me, it was the _last mission_ -“

                “Soldier, stop-“

                “I _won’t_ ,” hisses the Soldier, and he sounds crazy, he _is_ crazy, and when Steve takes a step backwards the Soldier barks a laugh. “Yes, that’s right, Captain, move away. Good boy, be the _good Soldier_ -“

                “Bucky-“

                “Shut _up_!” He’s yelling again, and their neighbors probably hate them, and Steve probably hates _him_ , and the Soldier can’t bring himself to care. Because he was never _meant_ to care, never meant to get this close, yearn for something, _want_ for something- no. He can’t. He just needs to explain himself and get the hell out of there and _get away from Steve_. “They knew you lost Bucky on the train, they knew you were suicidal – come on, who _doesn’t_ , you crashed a _plane_ – and if their toy soldier was on his last legs then surely it was two birds with one stone to send him after _you_.” The Soldier pauses for a breath, chokes, he wants to _cry_. “You were stronger than me, were always stronger than me. If you killed me, then they wouldn’t have to clean up their broken toys, you’d do it your _self_ , because that’s who you are, Steve Rogers, you’re so goddamned strong, you’d crash a helicarrier into the Potomac and you _wouldn’t even try to swim_ -“

                “Please-“

                The Soldier is crying. He can feel the tears running down his face, hates how his vision swims and blurs before fresh tears cascade down in a never-ending stream, and he hates that Steve is crying, too, hates that he’s hurting Steve because he _can_ , because that’s all the Soldier does, he _hurts Steve_. “And if I killed you, well, if that wouldn’t break Bucky then what _would_? You kill me, I kill you, either way, Captain America is out of the picture. You kill me and kill yourself for what you’d done, or I kill you and I kill _my_ self for what I’d done, or just curl up and die in a ditch somewhere. Fall to the bottom of a river, fall off a speeding train, it’s all the same, all the same-“

                “No, Buck, it’s not,” says Steve, so certain, so _sure_ , and the Soldier sobs.

                “You’re an idiot,” says the Soldier, because what else was there to _say_? Bucky couldn’t live without Steve. Steve couldn’t live without Bucky. The Soldier could see that, _anyone_ with eyes could see that, and the Soldier didn’t even know either of them that well. There’s plaster dust swirling in the air, and the Soldier doesn’t care about the stupid paper-wrapped package in his pocket anymore, he can’t think, he can’t breathe, and he _just wants out_ -

 

\--

 

The Winter Soldier wakes up screaming, his throat raw and strong hands pinning him down, and it’s Steve’s face above him again, only this time he’s frightened, terribly frightened, and the Soldier chokes himself into silence, or as close to silence as he can manage – short, gasping gulps of air squeezing into his lungs. The hands on his arms are like vises, and he can taste the rubber mouthguard-

                No, not rubber. Blood. He’d bitten his tongue. No rubber, no mouthguard, no handlers-

                “Bucky, easy, easy,” says Steve, and the Soldier stills, hadn’t realized he had been struggling. “Bucky, it’s all right, we’ll figure this out-“

                “Bucky,” says the Soldier, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Bucky spoke to you?”

                Steve’s face falls, just like that, and his voice is so _broken_ when he speaks again. “Yes, he spoke to me. He said he couldn’t wake up, but he said he could hear you. He can hear you, Soldier. He’s in there.” And he pulls away, leaves the room, and the Soldier can hear him crying.

                The Soldier wants to cry, but he can’t. He doesn’t remember how. He just aches, because he’s hurt Steve, and he aches because there’s an empty space in his head where Bucky should be and he aches because he doesn’t know how to fix any of this. The Soldier sighs, and it feels like every breath of air he lets out he won’t be able to take in again.

                Steve is standing in the doorway again, in full uniform, shield in hand. “There’s a mission,” he says, and there are tear tracks on his face that he hasn’t bothered to wipe away. “I can’t- I have to go.”

                The Soldier stands. “I am coming with you.”

                “Bucky, you’re unstable. I can’t risk-“

                “ _I am going with you_ ,” says the Soldier again, icy and flat, because he cannot stay behind, even if he is broken, because every bone in his body screams that he has to protect Steve Rogers, and he will do that. The Soldier is afraid, for a moment, that the Captain will not wait for him, but Steve is standing at the door when the Soldier gets there a few minutes later, in full battle armor, mask and all. He can hide behind the mask, even if Steve hates it, calls it a muzzle, but to the Soldier it is familiar and safe.

                _Don’t let him get hurt_ , Bucky says, and the Soldier acquiesces. He will not let Steve be hurt.

                Wait. _Bucky_?

                But there is no answer, when he calls and calls, and Steve is leaving, so the Soldier must follow.

 

\--

 

_Mission: save Steve_.

                That is the Soldier’s one and only mission. It was Bucky Barnes’ mission until he died in 1944, and it became the Soldier’s mission in 2014 when he finally found Steve again. It was the only mission he had, even if there were more nuances to it than any other mission ever placed in his hands.

                In order to save Steve, he had to keep him physically safe, but saving Steve also meant keeping him happy, and keeping him happy meant keeping him with Bucky, and now Bucky was only lucid five minutes out of seventy. And when he was lucid, Bucky was confused, and scared, and when he managed to speak to the Soldier he would ask about the blood on the snow, about the men in the white coats, and he asked about the men in dark uniforms and blank faces who kicked and beat him until the Soldier learned to duck his head and obey.

                The Soldier didn’t want Bucky going through his memories, seeing all the things that had been done to him. That’s why the Soldier was _there_. He had risen from some dark part of Bucky’s mind and fought the demons in human form that had tried to break him, and he had broken for them, and kept Bucky safe. He hadn’t known it at the time, had just been confused at why there were angry voices and harsh blows when he had done nothing, yet he had persevered through the beatings and the training and completed every mission until the man on the helicarrier had spoken those familiar words and had woken the Soldier to a new mission, one that didn’t involve handlers or cryo-sleep.

                This is what the Soldier thinks about, as he lays under a ton of rumble, breathing shallowly and wishing on every spark that skitters from the burning corpse a few feet away. He doesn’t know the soldier, just an unlucky agent of what remained of SHIELD who had followed Captain America into the fray, same as the Soldier. Unlucky like the Soldier, who missed the bomb that had flashed by which sent the whole fortress tumbling down on his head. By some miracle of luck, a broken girder had stopped a wall from crushing him, and the agent’s body, but the fire was now just guttering low blue flames, and the Soldier didn’t know how long the air would hold out.

                _I’m sorry_ , he says to Bucky. _I failed_.

 

\--

 

There is screaming. So much screaming.

 

\--

 

When the Winter Soldier opens his eyes, there is sunlight, and choking dust, dust that swirls in the air set in motion by strong hands, and Bucky is there, cheering them on, and the Soldier smiles.

 

\--

 

It isn’t over.

                The Soldier wakes up, dazed and blinking in the bright light of the sun, and he’s lying in the rocks and dirt, someone’s coat tucked under his head for a pillow and someone else’s shirt soaked red and tied around his arm. He can hear gunfire, and explosions, and shouting, but it’s all muffled, all hazy, and he shakes his head, blinks again, and he sees it’s just smoke. Smoke and snow and the muffled sounds of winter are loud with the sounds of war, and the Soldier sits up, reaches for his knife.

                “Easy, Buck,” says Steve, and the Soldier’s head whips around, finding him close and crouching, shield held ready to throw and his mask missing, dirt or charcoal smeared on his cheek and blood on his sleeve. “Sit tight, backup’s on the way.”

                Something else explodes, a car or something similar in size that goes flying up in the air in a plume of smoke and flames. The Soldier hears it, sees it from the corner of his eye, coughs once and tastes dust on his tongue. The Captain shoots him a worried glance, but he’s preoccupied, because there is blue fire being shot at them, and the Soldier remembers the HYRDA forces that had ambushed them. The mission had been a trap all along, and they had played right into it, right into the frozen wastelands and-

                _– pale skin on pale snow trailing pink and red too weak to scream so much pain and snow snow snow_ –

                The Soldier pulls on the coat he had been lying on, and it’s too big but it’s warm and he is cold. He crouches by the Captain, who watches the enemy, and the Soldier realizes that they are alone in their tiny cusp, hidden behind a rock. Others draw the enemy’s fire, too far away to make out faces although the uniforms mark them as SHIELD. Another car goes up in flames, and the Soldier spies a flash of red in the smoky sky.

                “Does he _want_ to get shot?” mutters Steve, more to himself than anyone. He tilts the shield to deflect a bullet, but the shot misses anyway, kicking up a puff of snow a few inches to his side.

                “Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?” murmurs the Soldier, and Steve looks at him, eyes wide and it’s fear on his face, nothing else.

                “Yes, and I threw up,” says Steve, and he’s shaking his head, but the Soldier can’t stop remembering, can’t stop the snow that falls and dusts Steve with a coat of white.

                “This is payback, isn’t it?” says the Soldier distantly, and he remembers the slide, and the train, the great rumbling train that had dropped him down, down into the snow.

                “No, Buck, this isn’t payback,” whispers Steve, and this time when he moves the shield a bullet does hit it, and he ducks lower behind the rock. “It was never payback, I never meant-“

                “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal,” says the Soldier, and it really isn’t the moment for an epiphany because a stray blast from a HYDRA cannon is more than their rock can handle, and the supersoldiers are flung backwards into the snow, Steve’s shield flying from his arm and skidding in the soft powder. The Captain scrambles for it, but the Soldier is closer, and he raises the shield just in time to catch the second blast from the gun.

                “No, no, _no_!” It’s Steve’s voice, Steve yelling that he can hear through the roar of the guns and the train and there’s no wind stinging his skin, no metal bar bending under his weight, just him staring at the sky with snow in his hair and a heavy shield on his arm, and Steve Rogers crouched over him, tears welling up in his eyes and falling in drops that splatter on his dirty armor. “Please, God, no, not again, _please_ -“

                “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to take the Lord’s name in vain?” murmurs the Soldier, murmurs Bucky, and he’s confused, staring up at Captain America who’s shaking his shoulders and yelling again, something along the lines of “ _you’re a jerk don’t you dare do that again I swear to God I will kick your ass you punk_ ” and Bucky’s laughing because it’s Steve who’s always been the punk.

                _Mission: save Steve_ , says the Soldier to Bucky, and he can’t speak aloud anyway because all the air in his lungs is being crushed out by a massive bear hug from Steve, who is pressing the Soldier’s face into his shoulder and swearing at him. _That was the mission you gave me_.

                _That has always been my mission_ , says Bucky. _It’s your mission, too. You’re me, and I’m you_. _My mission, your mission, it’s all the same. Someone’s gotta keep this idiot out of trouble_.

                _You’re me, and I’m you_. _James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. That’s who you are. That’s who I am. Me, you. That’s the way it’s always been, hasn’t it_?

                _You’re me, and I’m you. Mission: save Steve._

                “I am Bucky,” says the Soldier, and it’s true. He wasn’t the same Bucky who had fought bullies in back alleys over a blond-haired shrimp, and he wasn’t the same Bucky who had fallen off a train for a blond-haired supersoldier. He’d seen horrible things, _done_ horrible things. He’s the monster that HYDRA scared their children into bed with and the ghost that caught the operatives who lost their way.

                He’s the soldier who fights for no country, but for one man, and will do anything in his power to keep him safe.

                That is Bucky’s mission.

                That is the Winter Soldier’s mission.

                The Winter Soldier isn’t broken anymore, because he never was. He was just missing a piece of the puzzle, the piece that the Soldier had pushed down for so long he had almost forgotten it was a part of him. The integral piece that was Bucky Barnes, the kid who loved Steve Rogers, that was the piece that had fought its way back.

                “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” whispers Bucky, and holds tight to Steve. “Until the end of the line, and beyond. I am never letting you go again.” There’s something in his pocket, digging into his ribs when he hugs Steve tighter, and he grins, and whispers in Steve’s ear, “And have I _ever_ got the present for you.”

 

\--

 

The puzzle was complete, the box empty of pieces. Hands shook the box, making sure that there was nothing missing. “You sure that was everything?”

                A mouth curves up in a smile. “I know it was.”

                “You sure it’s a good idea? Letting him go?”

                “…Yes. A broken toy is discarded.”

                “Usually we just tape ‘em together, and keep playing.”

                “Metal is notoriously hard to tape.”

                Hands discard the puzzle box on the completed masterpiece. “Even metal such as that? The Winter Soldier was instrumental-“

                “-in every top-level HYDRA operation,” interrupts the no-longer cheerful mouth. “Every assassination, every kidnapping, everything that was crucial in the dismantling of SHIELD. A broken soldier will be useless to them. Repairing the asset is not an option.”

                “Understood, sir. But won’t they try? To repair him?”

                “No. They no longer think he is broken. And neither does he.”

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Author's Note:**

> _What happens when a broken Soldier is left without command?_
> 
>  
> 
> And so we go.  
> This is it, this is the end. I’ve written and rewritten and cut and recut and I’ll never be happy with this ever but it is, in all its glory, and hopefully it was readable. Once again, the little 2k character play turned into a monster (this one was quite the monster, holy wow what was I thinking), and lo, on the too many to actually count’th day, it was complete. Hopefully, this time for good, although the thought process for the Winter Soldier/Bucky is so _interesting_ and I wish I had time to explore it with more depth.  
>  Thank you for reading, and for all of your lovely comments and support!


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